Whatever Betty's Your Crocker
by Faded Fallen
Summary: All base personnel are to engage in tactical confectionary creation July 10, and bring the results to the Inaugural Hall by 08:00 hours on July 11, 1915. Any personnel neglecting this order will be punished by courtmartial. crackfic, light RoyEd


**Author's Note: **Finally got off my rear and fixed the formatting errors in this piece. XD Scene breaks! Yay! And there is much rejoicing.

**Whatever Betty's Your Crocker**

Havoc, Fury, and Breda hovered around the bulletin board, eyeing the newest memo with suspicion and incredulity.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Havoc asked, unlit cigarette bobbing skeptically in the corner of his mouth.

"I saw Falman putting it up earlier today," Fuery said.

"Falman? No way. Falman wouldn't know a joke if it knocked him dead," Breda added.

"Well, he did seem pretty serious about it."

The tacks, neatly pressed into the corkboard, gleamed with the earnestness only Falman's sense of duty could convey. They glanced uneasily at each other.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Yeah. No _way_ is this real."

"That's the Fuhrer's seal on the bottom, there." Fuery pointed.

Breda shook his head. "It's gotta be a forgery. I mean, the man might be oblivious and incompetent but _this_ is just… crazy."

"Incoming. Shut it."

The three men struck casual poses as Colonel Mustang approached. Ever since that anger management course the brass had made him take, he'd been harder than ever to deal with. He looked pointedly bland, and his right hand was snapping in time with his step. Uh-oh. They were hard-pressed not to flinch when he turned an ominously blithe glance on them.

"Good morning," he said. And smiled.

"Good morning, sir!" they chorused, suddenly at rigid attention. Beads of sweat were already forming on their faces.

"And what is so important that it took the three of you away from your duties, hmm?"

"Uh, well, there's a new memo from the Fuhrer, sir. Base-wide orders," Fuery replied.

"Really." Smile. "Step aside."

They almost tripped over each other in their haste. Mustang stepped closer to scan the memo and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The material of his gloves creaked. Then he turned his head to look at his men, still smiling. They gulped as one. The army was big on uniformity, after all.

"Well, you have your orders, gentlemen. We all do. I suggest we get to work," Mustang said with enough careless amiability to flatten a charging bull moose.

"S-sir. With all due respect, this is -"

"Not a drill, Lieutenant. I suggest you start researching immediately. Dismissed."

They held their hands up in salute as Mustang sauntered away until they heard the door to his office shut with a cheerful click. They sagged, breathing heavily. Even the worshipful Fury looked shell-shocked.

"Shit, it's for real," Havoc panted. He ran a hand through his hair. "The Fuhrer's finally gone insane."

"So has the Colonel," Breda said. He paused, panicked. "What are we gonna _do_?"

Fuery, bristling at the remark about his hero, stood up straighter. "Come on, guys. Pull yourselves together. We can do this. We're grown men. This will be easy."

Havoc closed his eyes and took a breath. "Yeah. Easy as -"

"Don't," Breda pleaded.

"Yeah," Fuery replied, perking up with the encouragement. "Piece of -"

"_Don't_."

"It'll be a total cake-walk," Havoc said ferociously.

Breda slid down the wall and whimpered.

* * *

Roy was sharpening pencils in his office in preparation for his research. It was convenient to do this in the office, because he didn't have a pencil sharpener at home, and he needed to grind something into a pulp _right now_. 

This was all that damned woman's fault. Or really, it was all that damned Fullmetal's fault for having such an intractable woman for a teacher. Yes. Roy would send Ed on some horrible, tedious, wild goose chase of a mission for this. Involving… a swamp. Yes, definitely a sticky, smelly, insect-infested swamp.

With alligators. Big ones. With a taste for high-carbon steel.

He looked down at the tiny stub of a pencil in his ungloved hand and threw it onto the pile with the others. He grabbed a fresh pencil and began grinding. God only knew how long they'd have the budget for pencils, so he was going to waste as many as possible while he could.

Really, what kind of a woman demands to see her former student's superior officer to lay down the law? And by 'superior officer' meant 'the Fuhrer'? And by 'lay down the law' meant 'scream bloody murder about the evils of the military'?

And really, that comment had been blatantly stolen from a bumper sticker.

Not that he was worried. Oh no. He had just expected more originality than that from the one who'd trained the infamous Elric brothers. He'd show that snide, condescending, meddling banshee. She hadn't pulled one over on Roy Mustang. His own teacher had seen to that.

The pencil in his hand snapped. Cheap thing. Oh well, maybe they would be able to afford pencils after all.

He pulled it out and began the process anew. A chuckle rumbled in his chest, spilling out and building into full-fledged maniacal laughter.

Izumi Curtis would rue the day she challenged Colonel Roy Mustang.

* * *

Ring. Ring. Ring. 

"Hello?"

"Gracia, my darling. Angel-face, sweetheart, baby-cakes, sugar-lips."

"Honey, did you need something?"

"How about some of your hot apple pie?"

"Maes!" A scandalized giggle. "Not over the phone!"

A pause.

"Er, actually, I meant that, ah, _literally_."

* * *

_July 10, 1915_

_It Shall be Known that Henceforth, all Military Funding Shall be Garnered by the Military Personnel in Commercial Enterprise, Pending the Results of the Trial Run to be Held in Central City._

_All Base Personnel are to Engage in Tactical Confectionary Creation July 10, and Bring the Results to the Inaugural Hall by 08:00 Hours on July 11, 1915. Any Personnel Neglecting this Order Will be Punished by Court-Martial, Effective Immediately. Alliances Between Personnel are Acceptable, Provided there are no More than Four (4) Persons per Entry._

_The Comestibles will be Sold to the Highest Bidder Between 09:00 and 16:00 Hours on July 11, 1915. Should the Fund-Raiser be Successful, All Funds now Supplying the Military will be Allocated to State Education._

_In the Name of Fuhrer King Bradley_

* * *

Izumi stood in front of the Fuhrer's desk, hands planted on hips and chest heaving. The Fuhrer looked at her indulgently. Ed cringed in the doorway, knowing it was too late to run and wondering if maybe he couldn't bite through his own tongue and bleed to death instead. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that Mustang was glaring daggers at him like it was _his_ fault, and he would _not_ give the impression of agreeing. 

"And what do you think would help this country more than the military?" he asked benignly, as if he wasn't being scolded by a simple butcher's wife.

"Schools. Education for the children, who are our future," she replied firmly, as if she hadn't been completely unprepared for a serious response.

"How could we fund such an endeavor without raising taxes?"

"In a perfect world, schools would have enough money, and the military would hold bake sales."

"Hm."

Mustang stared at the Fuhrer. Ed glanced at Izumi. Izumi scowled impressively at the Fuhrer. The Fuhrer smiled serenely at no one in particular. He leaned forward on his desk and pressed the intercom switch. Ed almost sighed in relief. Security he could deal with. He raised his hands to clap in preparation for the daring escape.

"Miss Douglas," the Fuhrer began. "Take this down. I'm in a proclamatory mood today."

As the leader of the country went on, Izumi had the grace to look chagrinned. Mustang's face became even milder, and he fixed Ed with an agreeable smile. Ed blanched and took a step back.

The shit had officially hit the fan.

* * *

Hawkeye stood in the abandoned office, looking sour as she listened to the rise and fall of Mustang's cackles. She read the declaration with a sinking heart. Black Hayate softly yipped a question from by her side. She patted him absently. 

Years ago, when she'd come home with the failing grade on her report card, she'd known that she wasn't cut out for traditional femininity. She excelled at all the things required by the military, and had felt much more comfortable there than in Home Economics anyway. She had assumed she'd be safe from such nonsense in the hard-knock life of a soldier.

But she'd forgotten that this was Amestris, and the Fuhrer was insane.

A mandatory bake sale.

"… I should have joined the navy."

* * *

Ed poured his attention all over the cookbook open on the table. And they thought Marco's code was hard to crack. At least then it had _meant_ something under all the homemaker mumbo-jumbo. And he couldn't seem to find any recipes that involved charred fish-on-a-stick. Al hovered at the edge of his vision, offering up something bright and ruffled. 

"I'm not wearing it, Al, so stop shoving it at me," he growled, pushing the wad of colorful cloth away.

Al sighed. "At least take off your coat. You'll get it full of flour. Do you know what to do yet?"

"No, but it can't be that hard. I mean, we have Teacher here to help."

"What was that?" Izumi said from the door, setting her suitcase down as she pulled on her coat.

Ed twitched. "Hey, where do you think you're going?!"

"Why, back to my home in Dublith, of course," she said and primly fastened her coat buttons. "It's been a lovely stay, really. I'm glad you boys finally got an apartment of your own."

"Teacher, you can't _leave_," Al objected shrilly.

"Damn right, you can't! You're the one who told that crazy old bastard to do this," Ed snarled, then ducked below the table just in case of flying shoe/suitcase/blood.

"Yes, well. If you think I'm doing anything that will help you stay in this corrupt military force, you've got another thing coming," Izumi said. She waved as she picked up her suitcase. "Don't even participate. Then you can get a nice dishonorable discharge so you can get on with your lives as true alchemists."

"What? You know we can't -"

"Look at the time! I should go if I'm going to catch my train. Tah!" she caroled, waving one-handed as the door slammed behind her.

The Elrics stared after her for a moment, then shared a glance. Al sighed and shoved the apron at Ed again. He took it with a scowl and turned to put it on.

"Do you think the book has a recipe for blackened rabbit-on-a-stick?" Al asked.

* * *

Breda sat slumped over the table at Havoc's place, listening bleakly to the sounds of eggs being cracked into mixing bowls and the rhythmic _pling-pling-pling_ of a wire whisk. It wasn't fair. 

He didn't blame the doctor, really. The mandatory physical came around once a year every year. And to be honest, it was only a matter of time before someone - namely Falman, or maybe Hawkeye - would have noticed that he left his uniform jacket unbuttoned from necessity and not because he was just that slovenly. The buttons had all popped off the last time he'd had them done up and then tried to sit down. And he'd been _sucking it in_, dammit.

He was only five pounds away from his goal. It'd been an uphill battle - weeks of running like a dog out on the quad every day, eating like a rabbit at every meal, and always hearing the siren song of the ice-cream truck at the most inopportune moments. But he'd made it down fifteen pounds already, and the doc had said if he didn't lose the full twenty they'd send him out on medical leave. And then Mustang would…

…Smile affably at him.

He shuddered. Much as he liked and respected the man, sometimes the Colonel needed to unwind. All the stress was obviously getting to him.

Dammit. Stupid doctor. It wasn't Breda's fault he was… husky. He had big bones. And who could refuse a jelly donut? Or a second helping of chocolate cake? And surely the sundaes he'd sometimes pick up on the way home from work didn't count. So he might have a little bit of a sweet tooth. So what?

Breda frowned. The timing of this thing stank of the universe's giant plot to make his life much harder than it had any right to be. Especially since he himself was no dab hand at cooking. After a minor incident with the eggbeater, he'd been exiled to the position of taste-tester.

Somewhere, whichever god that tested him was laughing wickedly.

"Hey, Breda, taste this and let me know if it's got enough sugar," Havoc said, shoving a bowl of whipped cream at him.

Breda stared down into the fluffy white depths of the bowl morosely. It smelled sweet enough. Surely a little taste wouldn't hurt. And it was in the interest of not getting discharged, so…

He reluctantly sampled a tiny bit on the tip of his finger. And oh, good lord, it was perfect. Light and creamy and sweet without being overpowering, just a hint of vanilla to give it some flavor. He smiled dreamily. In his head he heard angelic choirs bursting into song.

Havoc was looking at him funny. Breda stopped smiling and put the bowl down.

"S'okay," he said, hunching over the table once again.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

"'Alchemy was born in the kitchen,' my _ass_," Ed snarled, staring at the blackened mound of what should have been a chocolate cake. "Hand me the chisel again." 

Al sighed and slid the tool across the counter at his brother. Ed took it up and began to stab the brittle, charred mass in the baking pan with fast, vicious thrusts. _Chock-chock-chock_.

"Maybe we should turn the oven down," Al suggested.

"No!" _Chock_. "I'm a freakin' -" _Chock_. "-_genius_, all right, and I did -" _Chock_. "-the calculations out, and -" _Chock_. "-this is the optimum temperature -" _Chock_. "-for high-speed baking." _Chock!_

The cake fell out of the pan and landed with a ringing clatter, not unlike a manhole cover. They stared at it.

"I think it dented the counter," Al said. "There goes the security deposit."

Ed glared daggers at the cake, which bore the abuse stonily. He drew in a deep breath, curses already starting to take shape on his lips.

Then he burst into a coughing fit.

Al glanced around. Not having lungs, he hadn't noticed it before, but the kitchen was quite… hazy. Perhaps they shouldn't have disabled the smoke alarm after their first attempt.

"I'll just open a window, shall I?"

Ed followed him, and hung himself half out the window, gasping in clean breaths of summer air while smoke billowed out above him. When he'd caught his breath, Ed pulled himself back inside. He pressed his lips together and began ticking points off on his fingers.

"Okay, so we've tried muffins -"

"Burnt."

"And we've tried pie -"

"Exploded."

"And we've tried cookies -"

" Er… _Runny_."

"And we've tried cake."

They both stared at the still-smoking remains on the counter. Ed's eye twitched, and Al took a prudent step back.

"Goddammit!" Ed roared, flailing his arms. "What the hell are we doing wrong?"

"Well, _you_ keep changing the recipes. Maybe we should just go by what the cookbook says," Al suggested. He was still wondering about that pie. He was certain he'd seen Ed scratching some kind of array into the bottom crust.

"Shut up! Like those old biddies who wrote it know what they're talking about!"

Al shrugged. They'd never had a grandmother, so they couldn't be blamed for not understanding that with age came goody-prowess.

"Why don't you go team up with someone, then? I'm sure Havoc or Falman or someone would be glad to have the help," Al said in desperation.

Ed paused in his contortions to consider it. Al would have held his breath waiting for the verdict. Finally he _hmph_ed and dusted his hands off on his apron.

"This could take a while," he said, crossing to the door. "Don't wait up."

The door slammed behind him. Al sighed again and looked at the wreckage of their kitchen - smoldering pans, drippy mixing bowls, piles of flour and sugar and baking soda everywhere, and soot stains on the walls. He couldn't help but feel sorry for whomever Ed decided to inflict his 'help' upon.

* * *

They'd opened the kitchens in the mess hall to the soldiers who lived in the dormitories on base, so Ed decided to check there first. It was hard to move around - the kitchens weren't small, but they hadn't been made to fit the hundred or so enlisted men each trying to scrape together some kind of dessert. He couldn't seem to find Havoc or Fury or anyone in the crowd, and dammit why did everyone have to be so _fucking_ tall? 

He shouldered his way past a man carrying an industrial-sized mixing utensil and suddenly found himself in an open space. He glanced around, wondering why everyone was giving this particular table a wide berth.

"Edward Elric! What a marvelous surprise!"

Ed froze at the booming voice, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. A large hand clapped down on his shoulder and began dragging him to the stainless steel table. He winced as a stray pink sparkle fell right into his eye.

"A-Armstrong. Good to see you again," he managed weakly, rubbing his eye. Damn, those things _burned_.

Armstrong chortled above him, mustache twitching. "The same to you, my boy! Are you here to do your part for your country?"

"Er. Yeah, sure," Ed agreed warily. He eyed the various baking implements and ingredients spread out neatly on the table. He choked out, "I was looking for a partner, actually."

"Look no further, Edward! You are more than welcome to join my assistant and I as we honor my family's traditional fruitcake recipe, passed down in the Armstrong line for generations!"

The posing and posturing that accompanied this statement was enough to make Ed regret saying anything. Pink sparkles were flying everywhere, and a small huddle of bystanders was taken unaware.

"Aaagghh!"

"I've been hit!"

"My eyes! My eyes!"

Armstrong beamed down at Ed with his muscles rippling by way of persuasion, evidently oblivious to the collateral damage.

"Oh, no, no, if you've already got a partner, I, uh, won't get in your way -" Ed stammered, trying to back away slowly.

He backed right into someone and whirled.

"Oh, hello, Edward," Hawkeye said calmly. She set her armload of mixing bowls on the table.

"Uh, Lieutenant? What are you doing here?" Ed asked, blinking.

"I'm helping Major Armstrong with our latest assignment," she replied.

Ed glanced over his shoulder at Armstrong, who was weeping and extolling the value of teamwork and camaraderie. He turned back quickly and peered up at the woman curiously.

"Why are you teamed up at all?" Ed asked. "I mean, you should know all about baking, since you're a gir-"

He froze again, this time because of the army-issued pistol pointed at his face. Hawkeye cocked the hammer back and Ed gulped loudly.

"Are you saying that just because I'm a woman, I know everything about the kitchen?" she demanded levelly.

"Ah, ahahaha, no, of course not!" Ed replied, sweat breaking out across his face. "I just meant that - er - you're so _capable_, is all!"

"Good," Hawkeye said and eased the hammer down before she holstered her sidearm. "Did you want to join us?"

Ed shook his head so emphatically his braid whipped audibly through the air. "Haha, no, that's okay, I'll just go… somewhere else. Where's the rest of the gang?"

Hawkeye raised a knowing eyebrow. "You won't find them here. They drove across town to Havoc's apartment. But I don't think the Colonel has a partner. You could try his house. It's not too far from here."

"What? No freakin' way! He'd kill me as soon as look at me!" Ed objected, flailing. "Besides which, I don't _need_ that bastard's help!"

Hawkeye shrugged. "Suit yourself. You're always welcome to join up with the two of us  
if you can't get him to take you in."

She sketched a quick map on a spare paper towel and thrust it at Ed. Ed took it because his adrenaline was still pumping, and he'd noticed Hawkeye's hand never strayed too far from easy reach of her gun.

"Er, thanks," he managed awkwardly. "I'll just get out of your hair, then."

"Good luck. And, Edward?"

"Yes?" Ed paused.

Hawkeye's lips twitched upwards. "Nice apron."

* * *

"Breda, taste this." 

"And have a bit of this gingerbread. Does it need more molasses?"

"Have you tried the fudge?"

"What about the caramels?"

"Oh, that lemon meringue must be too tart. He's got tears in his eyes."

* * *

Roy was in his element in the most literal sense he could get, short of being burned alive. It'd been years since he'd mustered up the gumption to go this all-out, and it felt like coming home. 

Alchemy did indeed begin in the kitchen, but it hadn't started with the complex chemical reactions that changed a puddle of milk and eggs and ground wheat into a cake. That had come much later. It had begun, as many things did, with a spark. The catalyst, the heat needed to provide energy to the molecules, and it was itself a complex chemical reaction. Yet so simple: just a flick of a match, or a scrape of a flint, or a snap of the fingers.

Roy wondered how his men would react if they knew he'd learned his famous and deadly brand of flame alchemy crouched over an oven for hours at a time. Compared to the amount of energy, concentration, and precision it took to steadily heat an oven with alchemy, those wild, _uncontrolled_ explosions were child's play.

He surveyed his kitchen. The first stage had been completed. That is, the assembly of ingredients, the measuring, and the mixing. He'd greased the cake molds and poured the batter inside, then marbled it with a chocolate sauce he'd made on the stove top.

Now, it was time to start the oven.

It was an old oven, a monstrosity of wrought iron that burned logs in the compartment beneath. The new gas or electric stoves weren't very conducive to Roy's method, so he hadn't bothered with them. They weren't as exacting as he was.

Carefully, he set the pans in the oven and closed the door. Then he opened up the bottom and started loading the wood and tinder. He slid his ignition cloth glove onto his hand, admiring the array on the back of his hand. Passed down from baker to baker for generations. He smiled a little sarcastically - he was starting to sound like Armstrong, for god's sake.

Just as he was about to snap when he happened to glance up to the window above the sink. There was someone hanging upside-down from a tree-branch, staring at him. Old, ingrained responses kicked in.

He snapped.

* * *

Ed had paced up and down Mustang's front walk for about twenty minutes before coming to the conclusion that if he really wanted to get the man's attention, he'd have to knock on the door. He agonized over it for a while in that way only teenagers can, hopping from foot to foot on the welcome mat with his hand poised and ready for action. Finally, he bit the bullet and pounded on the door. 

And waited.

He knocked again. Nothing happened.

After a few more minutes of waiting, Ed growled in frustration. The man was ignoring him! Just because Teacher had to go and piss the Fuhrer off and prompt this farce of a proclamation. Well, fine. Let him. It wasn't as if Ed actually _wanted_ to be Mustang's partner. He'd just have to sneak around back and get a glimpse of what the man was doing for his project. Maybe that would lend Ed some clues as to how one went about this 'cooking' business.

He crept stealthily around the hedges, slightly hunched to be hidden by them. There was light streaming from the windows at the back of the house, but they were unfortunately a good six inches too high for Ed to look into them. He bit back a grumble about stupid height-biased architects and looked around for something to stand on. His eyes fell upon a half-grown tree that looked sturdy enough to support his weight. He grinned sharply and sidled up to the tree. In no time he lay prone against one of the largest branches, which luckily gave him a good view into Mustang's kitchen.

He had to bite his tongue pretty hard to keep from laughing.

Mustang was in uniform, but not one of military design. The white coat he wore was spotless and more form-fitting than his bulky blue one, and a tall, straight chef's hat was perched at a rakish angle on his head. Ed snorted and rolled his eyes. Only the Colonel could make that outfit look sexy.

Ed blinked. What the -? No, that wasn't what he'd meant at all. He tried that thought again.

Only the Colonel could simultaneously make that outfit look sexy and put incongruous thoughts of new uses for whipped cream in Ed's head.

Ed swallowed, his throat gone dry. Then, with judicious application of force, he slapped himself across the face with his automail hand.

Oh, _ow_.

He lost his grip on the tree and slipped sideways off the branch. A quick, instinctive scrabble for hand- and footholds saw him dangling precariously upside-down from the branch. He glanced into the kitchen frantically, but Mustang hadn't seemed to notice the noisy rustling of the leaves.

Sighing with relief, Ed tried a third time.

Goddamn Mustang, thinking he's so much better than Ed with his stupid fucking chef's hat that made him look so fucking tall, while Ed was stuck out here in a fucking floral-printed apron, and why did he and Al even _own_ an apron when neither of them knew how to cook in the first place?!

Ah, much better. Ed brightened considerably. He peered back into the kitchen. He'd missed something, it seemed, because now Mustang had moved from the kitchen table to crouch next to the oven. He was pulling on one of his gloves. Ed felt his stomach drop. Had he been spotted after all?

Mustang looked right at him. Ed squawked and let go of the branch just as the window exploded. Shards of glass and flaming chunks of tree rained down on him as he hit the ground. The impact knocked wind out of him, and he gasped and coughed as he tried to regain it. Somehow his apron had gone right over his face, too.

Footsteps approached rapidly and he froze.

"Freeze," Mustang's voice commanded redundantly. "Who sent you? Grand? Hakuro? Take off the apron."

Ed raised a hand and pulled the fabric off his face, and now was _so_ not the time for his thought patterns to be malfunctioning again. He do did not need to be thinking about Mustang telling him to 'take it off', especially not in that low, rough, sexy tone because he really didn't want to have to explain away the blush he already felt rising on his cheeks.

Mustang was standing in front of him a few feet away, fingers poised for another snap. When he realized it was Ed, the stern line of his mouth twitched. And then the bastard was _laughing_. Ed sat up and crossed his arms, blowing his disordered bangs out of his eyes.

"What's so freakin' funny, huh? You could have killed me, you asshole!" he snarled.

Mustang wound down, and he offered Ed a hand up. Glaring, Ed batted the hand away and stood.

"You should fix my window, Fullmetal. Fair price for being a peeping tom. Honestly, if you'd wanted to spend more time with me, you could have just knocked," Mustang said.

"Peeping -?! No way!" Ed's face burned. He flailed to distract Mustang from that fact. "You fucking pervert!"

"Oh? What else do you call climbing trees to look into someone else's windows?"

Ed gaped, closed his mouth, opened it again and responded, "Reconnaissance! Besides, I _did_ knock."

Mustang looked like he was going to start laughing again, and Ed whirled around. He clapped and transmuted the window and kitchen wall back into place.

"Happy now?" he growled sullenly when he turned back again.

"Getting there," Mustang replied, not bothering to hide his grin. "Now, want to tell me what kind of 'reconnaissance' you were hoping to accomplish with this display?"

Ed fidgeted. He mumbled, "Don't know how to cook."

"What was that?"

"I said I don't know how to cook, dammit!" Ed shouted.

And there was the laughter again. Ed fumed.

* * *

Five minutes later Ed was sitting on Roy's kitchen counter, legs swinging and his boots thumping loudly against the cupboard doors below. Roy had taken off his hat and glove, and he listened to Ed's harrowing account of his search to find a suitable partner for the assignment with half an ear. He had found that after his giggle fit outside, he was no longer angry at his diminutive subordinate, and indeed felt a lot less stressed out on the whole. 

Screw anger management. Exploding Ed seemed to have been more therapeutic. Roy smirked. Pity he couldn't do it all the time.

"And then Hawkeye told me to come here," Ed finished.

"Hm," Roy said.

"Are you even listening to me?" Ed asked.

"I'm still trying to figure out how you can recite the chemical make-up of a human body and yet baking a cake is beyond you," Roy replied.

"Yeah, well, we couldn't make a human body, either," he said, turning his face away.

"On the bright side, at least this time no one's lost any limbs," he said lightly.

"Yet," came the ominous retort.

Roy shrugged and studied Edward's profile. There was a bruise forming along his right cheekbone, and Roy fought a sudden wave of guilt. It wasn't his fault Ed had got hurt in the explosion. If Ed hadn't been hanging from that tree, the whole fiasco wouldn't have happened. The boy had suffered worse…

Damn it all, anyway.

Roy sighed and got up from his spot at the table. He felt Ed's eyes on him as he crossed to the fridge and drew out an icepack, which he wrapped in a dishtowel. He walked up to Ed, taking in the confused frown. Ed opened his mouth to say something, but Roy cut him off by gently putting the icepack against the bruised area. Ed's eyebrows rose.

"Next time your teacher comes along making demands -"

"Oh, believe me, there's not gonna _be_ a next time. I think she's trying to get me court-martialed. Teacher got the hell outta dodge so she wouldn't have to help me," Ed said.

"And now the fate of the military's budget hangs in the balance. I don't care how much the Fuhrer charges for cookies, there's no way we can make enough money from this to fund the mili-" Roy broke off. His eyes widened in realization. "That's it!"

"What's it, you dumb bastard?"

"Don't you see? The Fuhrer said 'pending' in the proclamation. Meaning that once this ludicrous bake sale fails, things will go back to normal," Roy explained, relief flooding through him.

He started to chuckle again. There would still be pencils to grind and pens to throw at the ceiling and paper to make into airplanes. Oh, and guns and bullets and tanks, he supposed. He was so happy he could _kiss_ someone.

That thought brought him up short, and it was about at this time that Roy realized he was standing quite close to Edward. Between his knees, in fact, which had stopped kicking. And he was still holding the icepack against the Ed's cheek. And Ed was looking at him with some odd expression that was a little confused, a little exasperated, and a little like… like he wanted to be kissed.

Treading on that revelation's heels was another, slightly more upsetting one that Roy actually _wanted_ to kiss Edward. He spared a thought to mourn the loss of his sanity, but then thinking stopped because suddenly he _was_ kissing Ed and Ed was kissing him back.

And. Oh. What had sanity done for him lately, anyway?

The sound of the back door flying open made him pull away, and he and Ed both turned towards the noise. Roy had a split second to register Alphonse looming terrible and vengeful in the doorway before something hard and gritty hit him square between the eyes.

* * *

Havoc and Fuery stood back and admired the sizeable heap of sweets they'd amassed. It took up most of the kitchen table, and what space was left was taken by a weeping Breda, who had never recovered from the lemon meringue pie. 

"Do you think we maybe went a little overboard?" Fuery asked, sheepishly scratching his cheek with one finger.

"Nope," Havoc replied, and lit up a cigarette. It was his own damn apartment, after all. "It's all for the good of the state."

* * *

"What the hell did you do that for?! Why are you even here? And why'd you bring that damn cake?" 

"It was getting late, so I went to the base to find you. Hawkeye told me you came here. And it's a good thing I did bring the cake, or who knows what the Colonel would have done to you."

"Did you have to knock him unconscious with it?" 

"He was molesting you!"

"As if I'd let him!"

"…You _did_!"

"Gee, really? Doesn't that tell you something?"

A contemplative pause.

"Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"Goddammit!"

* * *

Roy came around groggily to a splitting headache. He wondered vaguely when the railroad had put a track through his brain, because he had certainly missed _that_ memo. Likely he'd made it into a paper airplane without reading it. He sat up with a groan. Something lukewarm and squishy fell into his lap. He stared at it. An icepack. What the…? 

Recollection came flooding back, swift and merciless. He'd kissed Edward Elric. And Alphonse Elric had seen him do it.

He was a dead man.

Roy groaned again, putting some real feeling into it, and flopped gracelessly back onto his couch. How on earth did he get into these situations? And if Al was going to kill him, why the stay of execution? Why put him on his couch and give him an icepack?

Not that he was complaining. As soon as his head felt better, he was going to get up out of this nice warm patch of sunlight and take the first train out of Central.

Wait.

The sun had set, hadn't it? But… the sitting room only got sun in the morning…

Oh, shit.

His blood turned to ice-water. He hadn't finished his cake. He was going to be court-martialed. And then Al wouldn't need to kill him because _Hawkeye_ would. And that bitch Izumi Curtis would be victorious. As Roy leapt up and lurched towards his bedroom to change clothes, he was only certain of one thing.

This was _entirely_ Fullmetal's fault

The bake sale was in full swing, and the base was packed. Ed stared at the crowd bustling through the building, passing along the rows of tables that had the various goodies and treats up for display. Some of the soldiers stood next to their exhibits, as Ed and Al were doing now.

Their cake had survived the encounter with the Colonel's head unscathed. They'd even gone so far as to put it on a plate and frost it to hide the pockmarked surface. It looked benign enough. Ed didn't know why Al had fussed. That cake could go three rounds against Scar and not have a scratch. He was considering making some body armor, actually.

Armstrong and Hawkeye were set up at the table across from him. Hawkeye stood at a reasonable distance while Armstrong sparkled at potential buyers as they passed, which they tended to do rather quickly. Fruitcake wasn't much in demand to begin with, and certainly not when it bore such a striking resemblance to the man who made it.

Fuery and Havoc were a few tables down, and they were selling out of their various pies, cakes, and cookies. Ed glared bitterly. They had to make it look so easy.

"Wasn't Breda part of their group?" Al asked.

"Yeah. I saw him running out on the quad when we came in," Ed affirmed, bored out of his skull.

"Huh. Guess he doesn't like crowds."

Ed fell silent and tried hard not to fall asleep standing up. Last night had been very tiring. Not to mention confusing. He felt kind of guilty though, just leaving Mustang like that. Maybe he should have written a note?

The mass of people suddenly parted, and Ed gulped.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Elrics," the Fuhrer said as he walked up casually.

"Good morning, Fuhrer, sir!" Ed said - almost shouted, actually - and snapped a salute. Al bowed hastily.

"At ease, boys," the Fuhrer said. He leaned over slightly and looked at their cake. "My, you did a fine job. I think I'll buy this one."

Ed felt beads of sweat on his face. "Er, really, sir? I mean, uh, our cake isn't much compared to Armstrong and Hawkeye's. Theirs looks much… um. Tastier."

"Oh, come now. You don't need to be modest," the Fuhrer soothed. "I've never cared for fruitcake, and you boys have outdone yourselves this time. In fact, it looks so good, I think I'll try some now."

He produced a knife, fork, and plate from where he'd been holding them behind his back. The motion shouldn't have been as sinister as it was.

* * *

"Roy! Glad you made it! Just in time, too! I almost put these away. See, here she is helping Mommy rolling out the pie crust, and here she's washing the dishes, and here she's being a little snitch and stealing a piece of apple. Isn't she the most adorable thing in the world, even when she's being naughty? I don't know if I'll ever be able to punish her, she's just too sweet." 

"Not now, Hughes. I need to speak to the Fuhrer."

"What? Why?"

"I… don't have an entry."

Laughter.

"It's not funny, dammit! My job's at stake."

"Don't worry, I figured something like this would happen. I put your name down on my entry, too."

A pause.

"Why would you think that?"

"I remember military school. Knowing you, you got distracted by some other kind of sweet thing and never got around to baking. Besides, it's no big deal. What are friends for?"

A relieved sigh. "Thanks, Hughes."

"Roy?"

"Hm?"

"Where'd you get that black eye?"

* * *

Ed began to panic. If _not _entering the bake sale was a court-martialing offense, what was the punishment for killing the Fuhrer with tainted goods? He couldn't in good conscience let the man have their cake and eat it, too. But he doubted the wisdom of yanking the cake from the man's hands. When it came to it, he also doubted that the man would be able to cut their cake with that puny little knife. 

So when the Fuhrer neatly sliced a wedge of their cake without even sawing at it, Ed's jaw dropped. He and Al stared in mutual shock as Bradley raised a bite of cake on his fork and stuck it in his mouth with obvious relish. Ed waited for the pained scream of someone who's just broken several teeth. It never came.

"This is delicious," the Fuhrer said after he'd chewed and swallowed. "You simply must give me the recipe. My wife could take some lessons from you boys."

"Uh..." Ed said. His brain had shortcircuited trying to figure out how on earth Bradley had just done that - with a smile on his face, no less. And he man was _still eating_.

"O-of course, Fuhrer, sir," Al said after a moment.

"Give it to my secretary when you get the chance," the Fuhrer commanded kindly. He finished his slice of cake. "Mm. I love bake sales. You boys take care." He hefted the cake and walked regally off.

Ed and Al stared after him. Then, in tandem, they wilted to the floor.

"Brother?"

"...Yeah, Al?"

"Do you think the crazy gives him special powers?"

"That's gotta be it. Or else he's just not human."

"If he dies, do you think they'll trace it back to us?"

"Let's go pack, just in case."

They scrambled to their feet and made for the door. There was a crush of people near the exit. Al had no problem breezing on through - after all, no one wanted to get in the way of a seven-foot chunk of metal with spikes on it. Ed, however, had to shove and elbow and avoid trampling.

"Wait up, you tin idiot!" Ed shouted at his brother's rapidly retreating form. No way could he catch up at this rate. "Don't forget to buy train tickets!"

A hand grabbed his flesh shoulder. Crap! It was too late. The Fuhrer had probably died on his way to the cashier, and now the MPs had caught him.

"I didn't do it! I didn't even know about it! It was all Teacher's fault to start with!" Ed squealed as he was dragged out of the building and around to an unpopulated side.

"Sounds like someone's got a guilty conscience," Mustang said as he released Ed. "Could it be because you almost got your CO fired over some tardy tarts? _Hmmm_?"

Ed whirled to face his kidnapper, and winced when he saw the Colonel's black eye. He shifted from foot to foot. "Er. Sorry. But I tried to wake you up! Really! Andd it was Al who threw the cake at you."

"That was a cake?" Mustang blinked. He touched his black eye. "I have to hand it to you, Fullmetal. Even your slapstick is deadly."

"I _said _I was sorry," Ed grumbled. "I _said _I don't know how to cook."

"Next time, I think your word on it will suffice."

Ed looked up at Mustang and tried not to blush. What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to keep apologizing? Should he not mention the kiss? Because he'd been trying not to think about all day, just because thinking about it made him feel all... weird. Good weird, mostly, but still _weird_. Like he wanted Mustang to do it again, but what if Mustang didn't want to do it again? After all, Al was pretty scary when he wanted to be.

"But if you want to learn how to cook properly," Mustang continued, meeting Ed's eyes as he leaned a little closer, "You should come to my house for... lessons."

Ed really hated Mustang's smirk, especially since up close it seemed able to transmute Ed's knees to water. He gulped and fell back a step. Mustang followed him.

"I - I dunno. I might have to leave the country," he said, and his back hit the wall behind him.

"Any plans after that?"

Ed shook his head.

"Then what are you doing around, say, eight o'clock?" Mustang asked, placing one hand oh-so-casually against the wall, and effectively blocking Ed's escape. He was still smirking.

"Well, I - uh. I guess I could let you. Show me. Around the kitchen," Ed tacked the last on in a rush, trying to drown out all the double entendres.

"Good," Mustang said, and closed the distance between them.

Kissing Roy Mustang was so, so weird. Good weird, though. And the look Mustang gave him when they broke apart made him blush.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget to wear your apron."

**End**

Review? Pretty please? Thaaaank yooouuu!


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